Body Tox (The Bodies duet #1)

Chapter 14

I watched the stranger mopping, spraying, and cleaning up the bodies on the ground. He had taken off his fucking jacket and shirt, using it to wrap around his head to avoid smelling them. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to block out the stench of ‘stiff stink’ or the metallic swirl already in the air from the blood bath around. It looked fucking stupid either way.

It reminded me of what I used to do to clean up the shit box from my cat. The nightmare was long gone now—killed the same night as my mom. The only thing I had left of him was the toy moose he used to sleep with, but I guess now even that was gone.

Dad wouldn’t have sent a new dude after me unless he was intent on not getting me home. His drones picked me up too many times to count, but this…it felt different. Maybe this guy was a hitman—a delicious, godly-tongued hitman.

I eyed the man suspiciously. He hadn’t let me off this cold ass table that was covered in my humiliating come. If not for the dead man’s lab coat he had picked up and thrown over me, I’d be no better than the naked slabs this metal thing underneath me had seen in its lifetime.

He said he was my bodyguard, and god damn, the sting on my thigh from him literally burning my ass out of hell was not feeling great.

Asshole robbed me. I was to be with Cali, but now after Cali watched me get tongue fucked, literally, I really couldn’t look her in the eyes again.

Maybe I was better off topside, at least until I figured out what this fuck wanted with me.

His body was drenched in sweat, and fuck me if I didn’t want to lick it off him.

Wasn’t there some kind of psychological shit where when you were sexual with a man, you automatically wanted his juices? This was simply trauma-bonded horniness, regardless of whether that actually existed or not.

I looked at the tattoos littering his body. There were all kinds of images, none making sense, all having completely different themes. There was a fence, some woods, a pen cap, braided hair, a TV, tunnels…

Were these random, or did they have a deeper meaning?

I looked more intently at the fence. There were animals surrounding it. Little China glasses encased the area like a bowl.

“So what’s your story?” I said, tapping my nails on the table because that was all I could fucking move strapped down at the wrists like this.

I had big blue velcro straps on my thighs, ankles, midsection, and collarbone. He huffed, stuffing the whiny bitch lady into a big-ass body bag and sliding her onto one of the metal tables with a door.

Perk of being in a morgue? Free delivery.

“Don’t got a story,” he grumbled.

“You farmer Bob’s kid or something?” I made a popping noise with my mouth, playing with my tongue ring on my lips. “That’s why the pigs and shit are drawn on you?”

He stiffened, turning his body so I couldn’t see those designs anymore and shutting the metal door with the fresh stiff inside. I continued to make the noise, a cool squeak coming through my teeth. The man’s shoulders rolled as if they were irritated, and he continued scrubbing the floor.

“What’s your deal with blood, Vamps? You get a chub at paper cuts?”

He ignored me and slammed the mop down harder.

I looked at his back—the warped story of fish, water, and cabins lined up on the Alaskan landscape.

“You either like basic fishing tattoos or are a fisherman yourself,” I declared proudly.

He turned around toward me and walked to my side.

“Stop trying to figure me out. I don’t have a story,” he said through the jacket’s fabric.

“Oh?” I snickered, happy I struck a nerve. “Still being written, then?”

“Can I borrow those?” He pointed at my fingernails.

Confused, I raised my manicured eyebrow and watched him cautiously.

He unwrapped my hand from the restraint, holding my palm with my nails outward. Placing them on his chest, he pressed down, leaving a deep groove of red on his torso and pecs. It completely blurred the pictures in the blood-welted scratches.

Smiling smugly, he dropped my hand with a painful thud of the metal and walked back to his chore.

I blew all air from my lungs in an annoyed sigh and then realized the moron didn’t restrain my hand back to the strap. Discreetly, I slipped it under the lab coat and started fidgeting with the other restraint.

The stranger-hitman-asshole shook his head and laughed.

“Sorry, babe, but I’m not that dumb. I know you went for that strap the minute I left. Don’t think I didn’t let that happen.”

I froze, his words taunting me.

“Oh, I know,” I said. “You have pigs on your body because it’s your brethren! Smelly, meaningless swine.”

He didn’t laugh or roll his eyes in return.

I could be wrong, but I thought I had seen a flash of pain in his bright eyes. Ignoring that, I stopped being discreet and ripped the damn strap off my wrist and midsection. Leaning up to do the same for my waist, legs, and feet, but I caught him watching me.

He ignored me finally and turned his back.

“Whatever, I’m not worried. Not like you’d run out here, na?—”

Before he could finish his sentence, I bolted off the table and dashed to the exit, the leather jacket falling off my naked body and onto the ground. I was near the exit when a reflection in the cabinet made me halt.

Turning around, I ignored the shrieking, exasperated man. I walked back to the table and picked up the tatted, eyeless moose.

Why…

“Why do you have this?” I rounded on the guy, coming chest to stomach with him.

I was stark-ass naked, but I didn’t give a shit. I went on my tip toes and shoved my moose in the brute’s face.

“Where did you get this?”

He backed away from me. Acting like a naked woman was terrifying. I rolled my eyes.

“Can we skip pretending you weren’t licking my insides and enjoying it an hour ago and answer the fucking question?”

He scratched at his cropped hair, his short bangs flopping on his forehead.

“I-I…”

While listening to the moron stutter, I saw droplets of red on the Hoofy, and my eyes widened.

Blood.

“And who’s blood is this?” I shrieked an octave higher, pointing to the sprinkling of blood.

Poor Hoofy. He wouldn’t survive a dry cleaning. Red would just have to be his new do. Maybe I’d dye my hair to match. I would use this thief’s blood.

“I took it from your house,” he stated finally.

I scoffed. “Duh. But why?”

“Because they were cleaning your room, and I thought…I don’t…I thought it meant something to you.”

I watched him pace back-and-forth and back-and-forth, fussing with his head of light brown hair.

“What does it matter to you?” I was genuinely curious.

He wouldn’t look at me as he spoke.

“I lost things I cared about before, and I figured if I could save something for someone else…Fuck I don’t know why I did it. Never mind.”

I pressed Hoofy to my heart. My affection for the beat-up shit ball was obvious on my face.

“Thanks,” I said at last.

My ass hurt, and I was in serious need of a shower. A bag was over by the sink, and I walked over to inspect it. There was writing in black marker scribbled on a biohazard bag sloshing with liquid and some small weight. I opened the bag, the smell of some chemical singed my nose. It was Cali’s fucking tongue.

I sighed, closing the bag and trying not to gag at the smell.

“Keepsake.” The man shrugged and continued mopping.

I chewed my lip, inspecting my gnarly mark from the scalpel and whatever the hell this nut job used to burn the wound closed.

It burned yet itched now.

“So, what was the blood from?” I mumbled, unable to handle the silence and stupid mopping sounds.

His voice was muffled from the dumbass shirt gag, but I could have sworn I heard “Your dad.”

I snorted. “Guess you aren’t getting those raving reviews, huh, Pretty Boy?”

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Guess not, my Little Wraith. Guess not.”

My phone dinged from somewhere on the ground, and after a minute of playing hide and seek with the vibration on the ground, I finally found it. Looking at the screen in front of me, I nearly gasped.

A new contract came in.

It had been months since a contract had come in. I’d even wondered if the Debt Collector died on a cookie or something. But sure enough, there was a file waiting marked ‘urgent.’

And who was on the screen?

The rogue hitman who disobeyed the direct order from his commanding officer—none other than the Pretty Boy Vamps himself.

I guess dead men do have names after all, don’t they? I mused to myself, reading the name under the picture with the red stripe over his eyes.

Asher Ballard.